


Words

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Arguing, Feelings, I Don't Even Know, M/M, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22228240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: An argument in Jim's hotel room doesn't go the way he expects.TW: gross human emotions, grown-up language, no nudity, no sex.
Relationships: Marilyn Manson/Jim Root
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is not angsty h/c fluff bc I do not write angsty h/c fluff. It is merely not-smut with yucky feelings. Shut up.

"I fucking hate you," he muttered.

The alley was empty. He stubbed his cigarette out on an ash-stained brick. The building was vibrating with loud canned music and sweaty strangers. He didn't want to go back inside. So he didn't.

Pulling his collar up, he made his way toward the street. It was just as busy. Lights flashed. Loud voices flew out of car windows like napkins, then blew down the street, random words that meant nothing.

He caught a cab with one hand and sprawled in the back seat. The driver's window was down. His words escaped before they could be heard. It was just as well. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to go home.

The hotel would have to do. 

He didn't bother turning the light on, just dropped his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed. At least it was quiet. He rubbed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Something moved on the mattress.

"Damn it." 

He turned on the lamp and pointed toward the door, hoping that would be enough. Instead, he felt the body drawing closer. It smelled like sweat and tiny hotel shampoo.

"We need to talk," Manson said softly.

"We really don't. Get out."

" _ I _ need to talk, then. I can't just ignore what happened, Jim."

He stood up, walked to the door and opened it. Marilyn didn't move. He gestured into the hallway, but it didn't work. For a moment, he wondered if he could lure Manson out with a beer, like a puppy chasing a treat. He was out of beer.

"Shut the damn door and sit your ass down, bigfoot. I'll leave when we finish talking."

Jim looked out into the hall. If Marilyn wouldn't leave, he could. He could go down to the lobby and raise hell over a stranger in his room. He could hide out in the gym until morning. Instead, he closed the door and leaned his head against it.

"I fucking hate you."

"Sit down and hate me. I have stuff to say."

He growled and flopped into a chair by the door, facing the bed. Manson slid up to the headboard and crossed his legs. In the yellow light, he looked sick. His too-thin fingers wrapped around his knee. The other hand pulled his hair out of his face. Jim couldn't stand it.

"So?" It came out just as rough and mean as he'd intended.

"You don't have to be a bitch," Marilyn mumbled. "You're so fucking dramatic."

"And you aren't, sitting in my room in the dark for god knows how long, just so you can corner me? You're wearing your makeup, for fuck's sake. Everything's a show with you."

"Yeah. It is. And it's not. It's me just as much as it's fake, and without it, I-"

"Without it, you're a sad little asshole that no one likes and no one can trust, playing with everyone, using everyone. So get the bullshit out of the way and get out so I can have some peace."

Marilyn's mouth opened, then snapped shut. His eyes looked different. He must've really been trying to project some human emotion. Maybe he was taking classes. Still, when he spoke again, it hurt.

"Without it, I don't have the balls to do anything. I don't get what I need because I can't ask. I don't connect because I can't touch. The fact that it's fake means I can be me without the…" He paused like it stung, then spat it out. "The fear."

"Yeah, well…" Jim huffed, trying not to fall for it, "you certainly don't have a problem yanking me around."

"Is that what you think I want?"

"I don't know what you want! That's the problem! You play these fucking games! You fuck with everyone, never saying what you mean!" Jim realized he'd gotten up and was pacing. He stopped, facing the wall. "We fucked. That's it."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I have no intention of hanging on your arm for the cameras, or being your boredom booty call. I'm a notch in your garter belt. Fine. I can't take that back. But I'm not the butt of your fucking joke."

The bed creaked as Marilyn stood up. He could hear the heavy boots coming closer. He cringed. If those ringed fingers found his hair, it would be too hard to say no.

"You're not a notch."

His brain screamed at him, but he turned around anyway. Marilyn's makeup was running. His shoulders shuddered as he breathed.

"You're a hole, right through the center of me. I'm the butt of my own joke… turning plastic so I could stand to exist, and now I'm so plastic… I can't expect you to believe… when I..."

Jim pulled him close. He buried his face in his shoulder and sobbed. Maybe he was just laying it on thick, really pulling out all the stops. But somehow, it didn't seem like it. Marilyn felt so small. His shirt was wet. He just let him cry for a while.

"I don't know what to do," Jim said when the tears stopped. "I'm starting to feel like the asshole here."

"You're not." Manson pulled back and sat on the edge of the bed. "I read my own press releases. Pathetic. I should just go."

Jim sat next to him and sighed.

"I gave up guitar when Atomic Opera broke up. I figured I just didn't deserve to be a musician. One setback and I was ready to hang it up, be just another regular dildo, ride a tractor the rest of my life."

Manson snorted a laugh. Jim couldn't help but crack a smile.

"Fuck you, there's nothing else to do in Iowa. Anyway, when Shawn called, I said no, because I didn't deserve it. Point is, I think I have a bead on what I should mean to other people… and I'm always wrong."

"Well, you're definitely wrong with me," Marilyn said softly, nudging him with his knee. "I want to be a realist. You could be in it for the blowjobs. But normal people take the chance when someone matters. And you matter. To me, I mean."

They sat in silence, picking at their fingernails. A car alarm went off in the parking lot. People walked down the hall. Bits of their conversations slid under the door, words that meant nothing.

"Fuck." Jim cleared his throat. "I guess we're something, then."

"Ok."

More silence, but nicer. Marilyn sat up a little straighter. Jim's shoulders relaxed. He smiled when Marilyn leaned into him. Painted fingernails tapped his knee.

"Hey, Jim?"

"Hmm?"

"You, uh… wanna…?"

Jim looked over to see Manson making a juvenile sucking gesture. He laughed. The fingers moved higher.

"You mean you don't wanna recite love poetry all night?"

Marilyn swung his leg over Jim's lap and crossed his wrists behind his head. He purred, sassy. He rolled his hips.

"Those are just words. I wanna show you."

Their lips pressed together and a buzzing warmth went down Jim's spine. It wasn't the first time Marilyn Manson and #4 made out. But maybe it was the first time these two men did.

He reached toward the nightstand and turned the lamp off.

  
  
  
  



End file.
